


don't hide the broken parts

by infinituity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:52:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinituity/pseuds/infinituity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You watch his mouth move, and you may not be the best at reading lips, but it looks a lot like he says, “I’m sorry,” and then he turns away and his features are swallowed in shadow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't hide the broken parts

In the cold light of the half-moon, you see him. He stands, alone in the middle of the forest, his head bowed and his hands clenched into twin fists by his side. You stand and watch him, and if he knows you’re there (he should; you walk like an elephant), he’s ignoring you.

Minutes pass, and neither of you move. You can’t imagine what he’s doing out here all alone, or why he hasn’t tried to scare you away yet. For some reason, he’s still standing there, a lonely statue among the trees. A slight breeze rises, blowing leaves off the ground and into the air around the two of you. They bump against your legs, and you shake them away, but he ignores them just as he’s ignoring you. 

The moon has risen enough that you can see the edges of his features washed a pale blue. His eyes stand out, though, glowing red in the dark, and you look at his hands to see that he has uncurled them. His fingernails form dangerous claws that shine in the night.

Beyond him, the ground ripples, and the air fills with the sound of small plants knocking together. It’s like the whole clearing is full of wildflowers, but instead of the usual bright reds and oranges and yellows, they’ve been stained blue-purple by the night. That can’t be right, though. It must be grass or something; there’s no way there could be so many flowers growing together.

He moves, and your attention is brought back to him, as always. (If you were a piece of magnetized iron, you’re pretty sure he would be your north.) You watch his mouth move, and you may not be the best at reading lips, but it looks a lot like he says, “I’m sorry,” and then he turns away and his features are swallowed in shadow.

Everything clicks together for you, then. 

You leave your hiding place behind a tree, and you go to stand next to him. You don’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at you, but you nudge at him with your shoulder, and he pushes back. From here you can see the cemetery clearly, and it’s been overrun by wolfsbane. You stare at it and listen to it rustle in the wind.

When the time is just right, when he feels not quite so wary of you, you say, “My mom got really sick before she died,” and you think you hear him grunt in response, to show that he’s listening. “They’d have caught it sooner if they weren’t so busy with me.” You laugh, even though it isn’t funny. “She would say she was only tired because she was running after me all day.” And you can see her in your head, wiping her hair from her face and telling your father she’s fine, she’s just been chasing the little monster away from danger, like always.

You feel like you should say more, but you don’t, and instead you tap your fingers against your pants in some rhythm even you can’t hear. He doesn’t move, but you think maybe he looks over at you.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

You don’t answer; you just keep tapping away.

“Stiles.” He grabs your fingers, and you take a moment to revel in the absurdity of the fact that _Derek Hale is holding your hand_. If you had tried to imagine what it would be like, before now, you would have said his hands are probably rough and calloused. They aren’t, though, probably because of his crazy werewolf healing. It’s almost nice, somehow, until he tugs and you find yourself looking up at him.

He’s got this intense look in his eyes, just this side of being angry, but not too far from actually caring. His eyes aren’t red, but you can feel how they _could_ be.

“I don’t know, okay?” And you mean it to come out exasperated, but it’s too soft, too honest. You don’t tell him how you woke up with a start in the middle of the night and were pulling on your pants and a grey hoodie before you even realized it. You don’t tell him how you snuck past your dad’s bedroom and hoped helplessly that he wouldn’t wake up when you drove away. You don’t tell him how you wandered around in the forest for half an hour until something finally told you to stop and look. 

You don’t tell him, but you think he can hear it in your tone, because that feeling of power behind his eyes fades and what’s left is something softer than you think you can stand, at least coming from him. “Okay,” he says.

And the moment should be over, but he’s still staring into your eyes, and it’s not a challenge anymore. It’s almost like he’s trying to figure you out, so you stare back and let him try. There’s no harm; no one else has ever managed it.

“It’s not your fault,” he says.

You shake your head without breaking eye contact. “If you can blame yourself for this,” here you gesture at the clearing beyond the pair of you, “then, yeah, it is.”

He nods and turns to face the wide expanse of wolfsbane. “My pack has been here for ages,” he says, and you can tell he will be talking for a while. He’s starting all the way at the beginning, after all. 

He’s still got your hand in a loose grip, and you wriggle your fingers until they slide between his. He stumbles over his words for a moment, but when he starts up again, his voice sounds warmer than you’ve ever heard it.


End file.
